The Perfect Family

By Robyn Harding

The bestselling author of the The Swap takes you “on a wild psychological ride with this addictive thriller” (Palm Beach Daily News) about what happens when a seemingly perfect family is pushed to the edge.

Thomas and Viv Adler are the envy of their neighbors: attractive, successful, with well-mannered children and a beautifully restored home.

Until one morning, when they wake up to find their porch has been pelted with eggs. It’s a prank, Thomas insists; the work of a few out-of-control kids. But when a smoke bomb is tossed on their front lawn, and their car’s tires are punctured, the family begins to worry.

Surveillance cameras show nothing but grainy images of shadowy figures in hoodies. And the police dismiss the attacks, insisting they’re just the work of bored teenagers. Unable to identify the perpetrators, the Adlers are helpless as the assaults escalate into violence, and worse. And each new violation brings with it a growing fear. Because everyone in the Adler family is keeping a secret—not just from the outside world, but from each other. And secrets can be very dangerous….

“Unsettling and darkly sublime, Robyn Harding deftly explores twisted family dynamics and devastating secrets in suburbia in this stunning novel that will shock readers by the final page” (Christina McDonald, USA TODAY bestselling author of The Night Olivia Fell).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gallery Books
• Release date: Aug 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781982169404

Robyn Harding

Robyn Harding is the author of numerous international bestsellers, including The Party, The Arrangement and The Drowning Woman. She has also written and executive produced an independent film. She lives in Vancouver, BC, with her family and two cute but deadly rescue chihuahuas. Visit her at RobynHarding.com or follow her on Twitter and Instagram @RHardingWriter or Facebook @AuthorRobynHarding.

Book preview

Prologue

I STOOD ALONE in the street, watching the silent house turn down for the night. One by one, the lights blinked out, like stars dying in an inky sky. The upscale suburb was eerily quiet, no sound but my own breath. My own heartbeat. Still, I waited. And then I waited some more. The occupants had to be asleep. All of them. If someone heard me, if someone woke up, everything would be ruined. If I got caught, there would be serious consequences. Violence. Or even jail. But I wasn’t going to get caught.

It was a beautiful house; anyone would say that. It was Craftsman style; they were everywhere in Portland. Older, two-story homes with covered front porches, chunky wood columns, big picture windows. This one had been renovated and updated. It wasn’t huge or extravagant, but it was definitely expensive, and well maintained. The yard was manicured to perfection and you could probably eat off the paved driveway. Inside would be the same… an open floor plan with high-end furniture, valuable paintings, and designer knickknacks. All the shit that made a house appear elegant and refined.

But the people who lived there only looked perfect. They had done horrible things. They kept horrible secrets. People like that made me sick. Fakes. Phonies. Pretending they were better than everyone else, when they were rotten inside. Now, they were stressed, panicked, falling apart. The thought made me smile.

Pulling my hood over my head and drawing the strings tight, I moved down the driveway. My sneakers were nearly silent on the pavement, but the red plastic jug banged against my leg, so I held it aloft. The scent of gasoline was already strong in my nostrils. Good thing I’d thought to wear gloves. The smell would linger on my hands and give me away.

I stepped onto the grass, cool and damp, and cut across the lawn to the side of the house. The camera over the door blinked at me, but I’d be nothing more than a dark blur on the screen. The family thought the surveillance would be a deterrent, but it wasn’t. There was no way to identify me, no way to know who I was. Just another faceless figure lurking in the night.

At the side of the house, I squatted down, bouncing on my haunches. Adrenaline was coursing through me, my body vibrating with the need to enact my plan, but I forced myself to wait. And then I waited some more. To be safe. And to build up my courage. Because what I was about to do was serious. It could be fatal. But I couldn’t back out now.

I don’t know how long I crouched in the dark, but my knees were getting stiff and my right leg was starting to fall asleep. It was time. Bursting out of the shadows, I scurried to the decorative hedge that ran along the front of the house. Removing the lid from the gas can, I dumped the accelerant onto the shrubs, dousing the shiny green leaves with the toxic substance. A plant like this wouldn’t burn easily, but the gas would erupt. It would burst into flames, fire skittering across the foliage. There was a chance the porch railing could catch fire, that it could climb the wooden posts and ignite the second story. If the smoke alarms didn’t work…

Well, the world would be a better place without people like the Adlers.

I lit the match. And let it drop.

SIX WEEKS EARLIER

Vivian Adler

(Viv)

I SAT CROSS-LEGGED in a pool of spring sunshine, my palms pressed together at heart-center. The morning light offered little warmth, but it bathed the bedroom in a flattering glow, and the color palette I’d chosen—muted blues and creams—created a seaside aura despite our suburban locale. My eyes were heavy, but not quite closed, as I breathed through my nose and took a conscious moment of gratitude. It was a thing I had been trying: starting each morning with a grateful heart. According to a podcast I’d recently listened to, being thankful was the key to health, happiness, and abundance.

Thomas was downstairs in the kitchen making coffee with his usual amount of banging and clatter. I tried to conjure some gratitude for my husband of twenty-two years, but that full feeling in my chest, that warmth and lightness, refused to materialize. I loved him, I did. He was an excellent provider, a great dad, and every morning, he got up and made coffee. But it’s hard to be thankful for a man when he’s cheating on you.

I had no proof, just a sick feeling in my gut. Thomas had been distant, distracted, and irritable of late. His job as a real estate agent was always frenetic, he’d always kept odd hours. An affair would have been easy for him. But I’d trusted him… until now. We’d had rough patches before; what marriage hasn’t? But even in our darkest moments, we’d always been a team, a unit. These days, we felt like two solo performers who’d left the band to go out on our own. He was George Michael. I was Andrew what’s-his-name.

It could have been a midlife crisis; Thomas had turned forty-eight in February. Or perhaps something had happened at work. But another woman seemed the most logical explanation. My partner was attractive in a beefy, middle-aged sort of way. He had charm and style, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. I’d seen women flirt with him. Thomas had always acted oblivious, but maybe he wasn’t? I exercised, ate salads, dyed away my grays. But we all know affairs are not about the spouse.

Sniffing his jackets for perfume and checking his collars for lipstick had provided no evidence. If I wanted proof, I’d have to search through his phone and his laptop. But he kept his devices close, protected by ever-changing passwords and facial ID. This was a relief, in a way. I wasn’t ready to deal with the truth. I wasn’t ready to blow apart my family. My entire life.

Abandoning my attempt to be grateful for my husband, I focused on my son, Eli, sleeping two doors down. He was home for the summer, had just finished his second year at the prestigious Worbey College. The sporty little boy with the green eyes and crooked smile was a man now, taller than his father, and the starting goalie for his college soccer team. But he was still my baby and I was grateful to have him home for four months. Or longer.… Eli had recently announced that he was dropping out of school. Thomas was devasted. He had gone to a state college, couldn’t afford to attend an esteemed school like Worbey. We’d made significant financial sacrifices for Eli’s education, and now he was quitting. Thomas had blown up, had accused Eli of being ungrateful, of throwing his future—and our money—away. But our son held firm. He refused to explain his decision, simply saying, I’m not going back.

I had insisted that we refine our approach: no more yelling, badgering, or interrogation. We would simply pretend that everything was normal, let Eli have time to process his issues. He had the whole summer to deal with whatever had upset him. And then, when he had, he’d realize that returning to school was his best option. The flicker of warmth elicited by thoughts of my adorable toddler was extinguished by our recent struggles.

There was no point in trying to summon gratitude for my seventeen-year-old daughter. Tarryn was going through the most unlovable of stages. She was sullen and condescending, seemed to consider her father and me (but mostly me) to be irrelevant, ignorant, tone-deaf boomers. (My explanation that we were, in fact, Generation X was met with an eye roll.) Tarryn still got good grades, she seemed to have friends, but my bubbly little girl had transformed into a surly, angry grouch.

But despite our struggles, we were the same family we’d always been. We were all healthy. We had a lovely home. And for that, I was—

FUCK!

It was Thomas. My heart jumped into my throat, constricting with dread. It’s not as if my husband never swore, but he never swore at the top of his lungs at seven thirty in the morning. Something was very wrong. I scrambled up off the floor and ran down the stairs in my pajamas. The front door was wide open, and the living area appeared to be deserted. Peeking my head outside, I searched for my chagrined spouse. I folded my arms across my braless chest and stepped onto the porch.

Thomas? I called. But he was nowhere to be seen.

He rounded the corner then with the garden hose in his hand. His handsome face was darkened by a scowl.

What’s going on? I asked.

He looked up, scowl still in place. Some goddamn kids threw eggs at the house last night. And at my car.

That’s when I noticed the shattered white shells littering the driveway, the viscous goop already congealed on our plate glass window. Thomas’s BMW had been assaulted, too, shards of shell glued to the black paint.

Why? I asked.

I have no idea, he grumbled, screwing the hose onto the tap at the corner of the house. Ask Tarryn. She might know what this is about. He turned the water on and blasted the side of his car.

I retreated into the house, shutting the door behind me. Tarryn would be up soon. Perhaps our teenage daughter could shed some light on the assault. But Tarryn was seventeen, a junior in high school. Wasn’t throwing eggs a bit juvenile for her peer group? And she’d never had enemies before. She saved all her snarky comments for her family, seemed perfectly pleasant with her friends.

As I climbed back up the stairs, I felt fluttery and agitated. Logically, I knew this was not a big deal. Bored, unsupervised kids roamed the streets in search of mischief on a regular basis. But this had happened at night. While we slept. The master bedroom was at the front of the house, so I would have heard the attack, had I not been in a deep sleep. What kind of parents let their children out after eleven on a school night? And why us? Our neighbors’ houses appeared untouched.

Abandoning my attempt at gratitude, I stepped into the walk-in shower. I was meeting a client at nine, and I didn’t want to be late. My interior decorating company was small but thriving, no longer a hobby business—unlike my client’s vegan ice cream shop. Her hedge-fund-manager husband was backing the venture. It didn’t matter that she was entering a saturated market, that ice cream was highly seasonal, or that her downtown location was not ideal. This wasn’t about turning a profit. It was about creating something that was viable, that was hers. I understood that, and I was eager to help.

As I shaved under my arms, I reflected on my own business. It had never been funded by Thomas outright, but I still owed its success to him. I’d been working as a graphic designer (packaging mostly) when he asked me to help him stage his listed homes. I’d always had a flair for décor. And I loved sourcing furniture and unique treasures that would turn an empty or dated house into an inviting home. Word spread about my abilities, and other realtors hired me for staging. When buyers started employing me to decorate their recently purchased abodes, I quit the graphic design firm. My business was doing well, but we still relied on Thomas’s income. I made a fraction of what he did.

Stepping out of the shower, I grabbed a towel off the heated rack. As I dried myself, I still felt jittery and my jaw was tense. It was an overreaction. The appropriate response to one’s house being egged was irritation, not this unnerving sense of vulnerability. I was being ridiculous. But I slipped into my robe and hurried to my bedroom.

My recent closet renovation filled me with instant gratitude. We’d knocked out the wall between the master suite and the small nursery next door. I’d had wardrobes installed allowing me to color-code my outfits. Angled racks held my shoes, cubbies displayed my purses, and shelves showed off my sweaters. In the center sat a small island with several drawers for lingerie, nightgowns, and jewelry. The project had gone way over budget—we were still paying it off—but the results were worth it.

Slipping inside, I shut the door on the sound of the hose running in the driveway. Thomas was still washing away the mess; I didn’t need to worry about him interrupting me. I opened the third drawer of the center island and removed the mishmash of hosiery I kept in it. Then I lifted out the false bottom and set it aside. The secret compartment wasn’t necessary in our safe Portland suburb, but it was the perfect place to keep my treasures: a bottle of deep-plum nail polish; one delicate hoop earring; a metal lighter; a corkscrew; and a small plastic bag filled with tiny blue pills.

I picked up the bag and looked at the pale-blue dots. I wasn’t going to take any; I didn’t even know what they were. But as I fingered my bounty, I felt myself relax.

The feeling of vulnerability slipped away. I was in control.

Thomas Adler

(Not Tom. Never Tommy.)

THE SMELL OF rotten eggs was in my nostrils as I drove to the office. It was all in my head, I knew that. The eggs weren’t rotten. And I’d washed away the slimy residue on my vehicle. Still, the putrid, metallic scent seemed determined to haunt me. Was it in my clothes? My hair? I sniffed my sleeve. It wasn’t. My brain was playing tricks on me. I needed to let go of the stupid incident and its accompanying odor. It was nothing more than a minor nuisance.… But it was the last thing I needed right now.

I hadn’t had time to wash the house properly. Water alone wouldn’t remove the sticky slime solidified on the plate glass window. It needed soap. And a squeegee. But I had to pick up marketing materials at the office and then get to a showing across town. The listing in Grant Park had been sitting for way too long. It needed a price adjustment, but the sellers were difficult. The potential buyers I was meeting were from out of town, starting new jobs; they were desperate to find a home. I couldn’t afford to be late.

Hey, Siri. Text Eli.

She obediently responded: What do you want to say?

I wanted to say: Get your lazy ass out of bed, you entitled millennial. Go get a job flipping burgers, then tell me why you want to throw away your parent-funded, top-tier education.

But Viv would have killed me if I spoke to our son that way. When I’d lost my shit on him, he’d gone quiet, turned inward. He’d always been a gentle, anxious boy—even now that he was six foot three, athletic, and handsome. Life was hard enough for sensitive souls like Eli, Viv said. College was intense. He was playing high-level soccer. Goalies always felt the most pressure. It was a lot for anyone, but particularly for Eli. Viv said our best strategy was to act like nothing was wrong. Eventually, our son would open up to us about his issues. We’d arrange support—counseling, maybe some medication. An institution like Worbey would be well-equipped to handle Eli’s problems. He’d go back in the fall. It would be fine.

And I wouldn’t take out my anger at the little shits who’d egged my house on my own son. I might not understand my eldest child, but I loved him. Cleaning the egg off the house was not punitive. It just had to be done.

Hey, buddy, I said into the silent car. Some little brats egged the house. Can you clean the front window with soap and a squeegee? There’s a ladder in the garage. Thanks, pal.

After reading my genial message back to me, Siri sent the text to my sleeping offspring.

I was approaching the office now, and my pulse began to escalate. Fifteen minutes, in and out, I told myself. No big deal. But sweat was soaking through the armpits of my crisp white shirt, and my hands felt clammy on the wheel. Head office, once a place of support and camaraderie, now felt daunting and hostile. My colleagues, many of whom I had considered my friends, were not. Friends didn’t stand by and watch while you fucked up your entire life.

The gate to the underground parking lot opened automatically, and I drove into its gaping maw. My reserved spot was next to the elevator; I was one of the top agents, after all. The prime parking spots were based on last year’s sales figures; if things didn’t pick up, I’d be parking on the street next year. But I deposited the BMW and then strode to the adjacent elevator. Stabbing the button, I waited. In and out. I could probably do it in ten.

As I rode up, my mind drifted to that golf weekend on the coast. Roger, a forty-six-year-old colleague, was getting married (for the third time), and had felt the need to celebrate the end of his sporadic singledom. It was ridiculous for a bunch of middle-aged guys to party and carouse like we were in our twenties, I could see that now. I thought we’d golf, rent dune buggies, have a few beers. Never, in a million years, could I have predicted what would happen on that trip. I should have stayed home. I should have said I was too busy at work, that my family needed me.

But I’d gone.

The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened with a ding. Taking a deep breath through my nostrils, I strode into the office. It was early, quiet, just a few harmless junior staff milling about. Most of the agents trickled in around ten, and then only to pick up paperwork, access online realtor tools, or catch up with colleagues. We were self-employed, and we lived in our cars. Lucky for me. The tension in my shoulders was beginning to ease as I headed toward my assistant’s desk. I shared Emma’s services with three other brokers, but she managed to stay on top of everything. I’d told her to have my feature sheets and paperwork for the house on Hancock Street waiting in a manila envelope. Emma was usually a very conscientious assistant, but she’d been slipping lately. She was distracted by her upcoming wedding to her college sweetheart, a video game designer. Or was he an animator? Something like that.

Morning, I said as I approached.

Oh, hey, Thomas. She clicked the mouse, shutting down her screen. No doubt she’d been looking at bridesmaids’ dresses or bouquets. It wasn’t the first time. What are you doing in so early?

Picking up the new brochures for Hancock Street. I asked you to prepare them yesterday, remember?

Oh, right. She swiveled in her chair and began to dig through a stack of papers.

Oh, right? I’d specifically told her to have the updated marketing materials ready, that I was in a hurry this morning. I understood that she’d rather google cakes and flowers and wedding rings than handle my paperwork, but I was going to have to have a word with her about her distraction. Just not right now.

Down the hall, I heard the elevator doors open and I caught a glimpse of Leo Grass. Leo had been Roger’s best man at his last two weddings. He’d organized the bachelor weekend at the resort and casino on the Oregon coast, was responsible for the debauchery that had occurred. I wasn’t completely blameless—I was a grown man with free will—but Leo had provided the alcohol and the drugs. He had invited the women. He had created the perfect storm.

Here they are, Emma said finally.

Thanks. I grabbed the envelope and hustled toward the elevator. I should have checked through the pages. Last month I’d found her gift registry in with the feature sheets. She and the video game guy wanted a full set of Le Creuset cookware. They certainly had expensive taste. I’d tell the office manager to get her a dutch oven from all of us.

As I was punching the elevator call button, Leo strolled up with a cup of coffee.

Hey, mate, he said in his British accent, which some considered charming but I’d recently decided I hated. Haven’t see you around much. Still recovering?

He winked at me then, and I had the distinct urge to punch him in his smug face. The bachelor party was over a month ago. Yeah, I’d been fucked up, a mess, disgusting even. But it didn’t take a month to recover from one night of depravity.

Been busy, I said, with a forced smile that felt like a grimace.

You shifted the house on Hancock? he asked, and I caught something taunting in his tone.

I’m headed to a showing right now.

Why isn’t it selling? He took a sip of his coffee. Was someone murdered in there?

I’d like to murder you in there. But I forced a chuckle. He was joking, but it was still a dig. To my relief, the elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside. They closed on his haughty British face.

Alone in the small box, I closed my eyes, let the tension, anger, and shame seep out of me. This wasn’t Leo Grass’s fault. Leo, Roger, and the other guys were just bystanders, just witnesses. This was all on me, and the thought made my throat close with emotion. How could I have done something so heinous? So vile and abhorrent? Never in a million years had I thought I had it in me. I still didn’t believe it. But the photographs…

The doors opened and I hurried to my car. I was not going to fall apart. I was going to sell this house, make some money, and deal with this fucking mess. Viv knew something was up. Her eyes darted to my phone whenever it made a sound, so I kept it on night mode when I was at home. If she got into my e-mails, if she saw what was on there, it would be the end. And not just of my marriage.

Hopping into the car, I reversed out of the space and drove out of the dank garage. The spring sunshine hit me, and I reached for my Tom Ford sunglasses in the console. It had been raining for the past four days and the balmy weather should have been a welcome reprieve. But it barely registered with me as I gunned the car toward Grant Park, lost in my thoughts.

My wife thought I was having an affair, but I wasn’t—never had, never would. I wanted to tell Viv that I still loved

Reviews for The Perfect Family

[jenn88-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The perfect family isn't so perfect after all. Everyone is keeping secrets and now they're being targeted - acts of vandalism that started out small, but who could be doing this? Told from the perspective of each of the four members of the Adler family, we get to know them personally, learn about the secrets they're carrying and how it makes them feel. I really enjoyed Robyn Harding's last couple novels and I'm happy to say this one was no different. Well-written from cover to cover - fleshed out characters, the story was solid and the pacing was perfect. I look forward to reading more from this author!

Thank you to Netgalley and Simon & Schuster Canada for an ARC.

[Gemma Darking · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This was a good story fast paced lots going on and very enjoyable read ??
Recommend it as 4 stars from me ??????

[tinkerbellkk · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I found this to be a very quick read. It kept me engaged and wanting to know what was going to happen next. This family had a lot of secrets and they weren't very happy. But as a set of circumstances escalated and spiralled out of control they had to fess up and come to grips with their truth. Recommended for an entertaining read.

[Miranda · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

It was just awful. Nonsense on paper. I barely finished it

[nikkicolee · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book! I loved the characters, each and every one of them. I loved the way the chapters alternated between each of them and I loved the way each chapter ending left me hanging for more. I was so invested in this story and I’m sad it’s over! It would be amazing if there was a sequel coming!! Thank you to Netgalley & the publisher for this advanced copy in exchange for my honest review.